FOREWORD 
THESE ARE some of the earliest Biggles stories. They appeared in "The Modem Boy" about 1932, when the events of the Kaiser's war were still fresh in mind, and deal with that period of air combat when one could only qualify for the title ace by shooting down a certain number of enemy aircraft. In the French Service the number was five: in Germany, ten. The Air Ministry did not acknowledge the system, but in scout squadrons victories were counted unofficially. 
To the student of modem warfare and high-performance aircraft these stories will appear far-fetched. So they are. But in 1916 war-flying was far-fetched. So were some of the incidents of Hitler's war, if it comes to that. I doubt if any writer would court derision by having his hero fall out of an aircraft flying at 18,000 feet without a parachute-and live to tell the tale. 
The great difference between the two wars was this. The machines of 1915-16, with a top speed of under 100 m.p.h., and landing speeds in proportion, could get down almost anywhere. Pilots thought little of landing in a field to ask the way, have a cigarette, or beg a drink of water. In this way spies could be landed behind the enemy lines. Occasionally a pilot would do it for sheer devilment. Frank Luke, the American pilot who won the Congressional Medal of Honour, lost his life doing it. The day being hot he landed by a brook for a drink. Caught in the act by German troops he fought with his pistol until he was killed. He was the champion balloon buster, having shot down thirteen in a fortnight. Most pilots kept clear of them. 
Strange stories could be told of kite balloons. An officer known to the writer, finding himself at 3,000 feet with his balloon on fire and no parachute, decided to go down the cable. He slid most of the way, removing the flesh from his hands and thighs. But he lived. Operations replaced the flesh from another part of his body, although when the author saw him, in Newcastle, after the war, he still had difficulty in closing his hands. 
Colonel Strange, while his machine was upside down in a combat, fell out. But hanging on to his gun he managed to climb back, right the machine and fly home. Madon, the French ace, once shot the goggles off a German gunner-and caught them in mid-air. You may have heard the uncanny story of the R.E.8 that came home by itself and made a reasonable landing with pilot and gunner dead in their seats. 
Examples to strain the credulity could be given indefinitely, and those given above are merely quoted to show the sort of thing that could happen when war- flying was in its infancy. The writer fell out of control into Germany from 19,000 feet, and - to his surprise - found himself still alive. 
Discipline in some squadrons, particularly scout squadrons, hardly existed, although there was a tendency to tighten things up towards the end. But in the early days, as long as a pilot did his job, nobody bothered much about what else he did. There was no radio to tell a hunting pilot where to go, or what to do, once his wheels were off the ground. 
Well, they were great days, days the world will never see again, and Biggles, like most pilots of the period, made the most of them. 
- W.E.J. - 
THE TURKEY 
BIGGLES stood by the ante-room window of the officers' mess with a coffee cup in his hand and regarded the ever-threatening sky disconsolately. 
It was Christmas-time; winter had long since displaced with fogs and rains the white, piled clouds of summer, and perfect flying weather was now merely a memory of the past. Nor did the change of season oblige by providing anything more attractive or seasonable than dismal conditions. A good fall of snow would have brightened up both the landscape and the spirits of those who thought that snow and Yuletide ought always to go together. 
But the outlook from the officers' mess of No. 266 Squadron was the very opposite of what the designers of Christmas cards imagine an appropriate setting for the season. 
"Well," observed Biggles, as he looked at it, "I think this is a pretty rotten war. Everything's rotten. The weather's rotten. This coffee's rotten - to say nothing of it being half-cold. That record that Mahoney keeps playing on the gramophone is rotten. And our half-baked mess caterer is rotten-putrid in fact!" 
"Why, what's the matter with him?" asked Wat Tyler, the recording officer, from the table, helping himself to more bacon. 
"Tomorrow is Christmas Day, and he tells me he hasn't got a turkey for dinner." 
"He can't produce turkeys out of a hat. What do you think he is - a magician? How can ----" 
"Oh, shut up, Wat. I don't know how he can get a turkey. That's his affair." 
"You expect too much. You may not have realised it yet, but there's a war on! " 
Biggles eyed the recording officer sarcastically. 
"Oh, there's a war on, is there?" he said. "And you'd make that an excuse for not having a turkey for Christmas dinner? I say it's all the more reason why we should have one. I'll bet every squadron on each side of the Line has got turkey for dinner - except us! " 
"Well, you're a bright boy," returned Wat, "why don't you go and get one, if it's so easy?" 
"For two pins I'd do it!" snorted Biggles.
"Fiddlesticks!"
Biggles swung round on his heel. "Fiddlesticks, my grandmother! " he snapped. " Are you suggesting I couldn't get a turkey if I tried?" 
"I am," returned Wat. "I know for a fact that Martin has ransacked every roost, shop and warehouse for a radius of fifty miles, and there isn't one to be had for love or money."
"Oh," Biggles said. "Then in that case I shall have to see about getting one."
Algy caught his eye and frowned. "Don’t make rash promises," he said warningly.
"Well, when I do get one you’ll be one of the first to line up with your plate, I’ll be bound," Biggles retorted. "Look here, if I get that bird, will you all line up respectfully and ask for a portion – and will somebody do my dawn patrols for a week?"
There was silence for a moment.
"Yes, I will," declared Mahoney.
"Good! You can be getting a stock of combat reports ready," declared Biggles, turning towards the door.
"Where are you off to?" called Wat.
"Turkey hunting," replied Biggles shortly.
"And where do you imagine you are going to find one?"
"You don’t suppose I’m going to stand here and wait for one to come and give itself up, do you? And you don’t suppose I’m going to wander about this frost-bitten piece of landscape looking for one?"
"But I tell you, you won’t find a turkey within miles!"
"That’s all you know about it!" grunted Biggles, and turning, slammed the door.
Now, at the beginning of that conversation Biggles had not the remotest idea of where he was going to start his quest for a turkey. But he had a vague recollection of seeing a large flock of turkeys below him on an occasion when he had been flying very low; an as he left the room to fulfil his rash promise he suddenly recalled where he had seen them. 
He was half-way to the sheds when he called to mind the actual spot, and realised with dismay that it was over the other side of the Lines. He paused in his stride and eyed the sky meditatively. The clouds were low, making reconnaissance-flying quite useless, but there were breaks through which a pilot who was willing to take chances might make his way to the "sunnyside". 
Returning to, the ground would be definitely dangerous, for if the pilot chose to come down through the clouds at a spot where they reached to the ground, a crash would be inevitable. But once in the air the clouds would present plenty of cover. It was, in fact, the sort of day on which an enthusiastic airman might penetrate a good distance into enemy territory without encountering opposition. 
He went on thoughtfully towards the sheds. The farm on which he had seen the turkeys, he remembered, was close to a village with a curiously shaped church tower. It was, to the best of his judgment, between thirty and forty miles over the Lines, and provided that the clouds were not absolutely solid in that region he felt confident of being able to find it again. 
But he had by no means made up his mind to go, for the project bristled with big risks. To fly so far over enemy country alone was not a trip to be lightly undertaken. And to land in enemy territory and leave the machine-as he would have to do-was little short of madness. Was it worth the risk? 
He decided it was not, and was about to return to the mess when he was hailed by Algy and Mahoney, who had followed him up. 
" Are you going turkey hunting in the atmosphere?" grinned Mahoney. 
The remark was sufficient to cause Biggles to change his mind there and then, for he could stand anything except ridicule. "Yes," he said brightly. "They fly very high, you know - higher than you ever go. But I think I can manage to bag one." 
"But you're not seriously thinking of flying?" cried Algy, aghast. "It's impossible on a day like this! Look how low the clouds are! " 
"You'll see whether I am or not," muttered Biggles. "Smyth, get my machine out." 
"But it-----" began the N.C.O. 
"Get it out - don't argue. My guns loaded?" 
"Yes, sir." 
"Tanks full?" "Yes, sir." 
"Then get her out and start up." 
"He's as mad as a March hare," declared Mahoney hopelessly, five minutes later, as Biggles' Camel roared up into the moisture-laden sky. 
"He is!" agreed Algy. "But it's time you knew him well enough to know that when he comes back he'll have a turkey with him - if he comes back at all. I wish I knew which way he'd gone. If I did I'd follow him to see that he doesn't get into mischief." 
After climbing swiftly through a hole in the clouds Biggles came out above them at 5,000 feet, and after a swift but searching scrutiny of the sky turned his nose north-east. In all directions stretched a rolling sea of billowing mist that gleamed white in the wintry sun under a sky of blue. 
North, south, east, and west he glanced in turn; but, as he expected, not a machine of any sort was in sight, and he settled himself down to his long flight hopefully. The first difficulty, he thought, would be to find and identify the village or farm; the next would be to land in a suitable field near at hand without damaging the machine. 
He realised that his greatest chance of success lay in the fact that the place was so far over the Lines, well beyond the sphere of the German aircraft and the German infantry who were holding, or were in reserve for, the trenches. To have landed anywhere near them would have been suicidal. 
As it was, his objective was a remote hamlet where the only opposition he was likely to encounter on the ground was a farmer, or his men, although there was always a chance of running into stray German troops who were quartered or billeted well behind the Lines at rest camps or on the lines of communication. 
"Well, it's no use making plans on a job like this," he mused. "Let's find the place and see what happens."
He glanced at his compass to make sure that he was on his course, and then at his watch, and noticed that he had been in the air for nearly twenty-five minutes
" Almost there," he muttered, and began looking for a way down through the clouds. But in all directions they presented an unbroken surface, and rather than risk over-shooting his objective he throttled back and with his eyes on the altimeter began gliding down through them. 
He shivered involuntarily as the clammy mist closed about him and swirled around wings and fuselage like gale-blown smoke. Down-down-down; 3,000- 2,000-1,000, and still there was no sign of the ground. 
At 500 feet he was still in it, but it was getting thinner, and at 3°0 feet he emerged over a sombre, snow-covered landscape. The country was absolutely strange to him, so he raced along just below the clouds, looking to right and left for a landmark that he could recognise. 
For about five minutes he flew on, becoming more and more anxious, and was beginning to think that he had made a big error of judgment when straight ahead he saw the dim outline of a far-spreading wood. He recognised it at once. 
"Dash it I I've come too far," he muttered, and, turning the Camel in its own length he began racing back over his course. "There must be a following wind upstairs to take me as far over as this," he mused, as the minutes passed, and still he could see no sign of the village he sought. 
He came upon it quite suddenly, and his heart gave a leap as his eyes fell upon the well-remembered farm- house, with its rows of poultry houses. But where were the turkeys? Where was the flock of a hundred or more plump black birds that had fled so wildly at his approach on the last occasion? Then he understood. 
"Of course I" he told himself savagely. "What a fool I am! They're all dead by now. Plucked and hanging up in the Berlin poulterers' shops, I expect. Ha!" 
A sparkle came to his eyes as they fell on a great turkey cock, evidently the monarch of the flock, that had, no doubt, been kept as the leader of the next year's brood. It was standing outside one of the houses, with its feathers puffed out, its head on one side, and an eye cocked upwards on the invader of its domain. 
"Don't stretch your neck, old cock; you'll have a closer view of me in a minute," mumbled Biggles, as he took a quick glance around to get the lie of the land. 
The poultry coops were in a small paddock about a hundred yards from the farmhouse and its outbuildings, which, in turn, were nearly a quarter of a mile from the village. There were several fields near at hand in which an aeroplane might be landed with some risk, and as far as he could see, not a soul was in sight. 
So much was he able to take in at a glance. There was no wood, or any other form of cover, so concealment was out of the question. The raid would have to be made in the open and depend entirely upon speed for its success. 
."Well, it's no use messing about," he thought, and, cutting his engine, glided down into a long, narrow field adjoining the paddock. He had a nasty moment or two as the machine bumped over the snow-covered tussocks and molehills with which the pasture was plentifully besprinkled, but kicking on right rudder just before the Camel ran to a standstill he managed to swerve so that it stopped not far from the low hedge which divided the field from the paddock. 
He was out of the cockpit at once, and, with his eye on the farm, ran like a deer towards the turkey, which still appeared to be watching the proceedings with the greatest interest. 
It stood quite still until he was not more than ten yards away, but still on the wrong side of the hedge, and it was only when he began to surmount this obstacle that the turkey's interest began to take the form of mild alarm. 
"Tch-tch!" clucked Biggles gently, holding out his hand and strewing the snow with imaginary grains of corn. But the bird was not so easily deluded. It began to sidestep away, wearing that air of offended dignity that only a turkey can adopt; and, seeing that it was likely to take real fright at any moment, Biggles made a desperate leap. 
But the turkey was ready: it sprang nimbly to one side, at the same time emitting a shrill gobble of alarm. Biggles landed on all fours in the sodden grass. 
"I ought to have brought my gun for you," he raged, "and then I'd give you something to gobble about, you scraggy-necked----" 
His voice died away as he gazed in stupefied astonishment at a man who had appeared at the door of the nearest poultry house-which, judging by the fork he held, he had been in the act of cleaning. 
If Biggles was surprised, it was clear that the man was even more surprised, and for ten seconds they stared at each other speechlessly. Biggles was the first to recover his presence of mind, although he hesitated as to what course to pursue. 
Remembering that he was in occupied Belgian territory, it struck him that the man looked more like a Belgian than an enemy. 
"Are you German?" Biggles asked sharply, in French. 
"No, Belgian," replied the other quickly. "You are English, is it not?" he added quickly, glancing apprehensively towards the farmhouse. 
The action was not lost on Biggles. "Are there Germans in the house?" he asked tersely. 
"Yes, the Boches are living in my house!" The Belgian spat viciously. 
Biggles thought swiftly. If there were Germans in the house they would be soldiers, and, of course, armed. At any moment one of them might look out of a window and see him. 
"Why have you come here?" the Belgian went on, in a nervous whisper. 
Biggles pointed to the turkey. "For that," he answered. 
The Belgian looked at him in amazement. He looked at the bird, and then back at Biggles. Then he shook his head. "That is impossible," he said. "I am about to kill it, for it has been kept back for the German officers in the village." 
"Will they pay you for it?" asked Biggles quickly. 
"No." 
"Then I will. How much?" 
The Belgian looked startled. "It is not possible!" he exclaimed again. 
"Isn't it?" Biggles cast a sidelong glance at the turkey, which, reassured by the presence of the owner, whom it knew, was strutting majestically up and down within three yards of them. He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out some loose franc notes. "Here, take this!" he said, and leapt on to the bird. 
This time there was no mistake, and he clutched it in both arms. He seized the flapping wings and held them together with his left hand, taking a firm grip of the neck with his right. 
"Come on, kill it!" he called to the Belgian. "I can't! " 
There was a sudden shout from the direction of the house and, looking up, he saw to his horror that a soldier in grey uniform was standing on the doorstep watching him. Again the call of alarm rang out and a dozen or more German troops - some half-dressed, others fully clad and carrying rifles - poured out. 
For a moment they stood rooted in astonishment. Then, in a straggling line, they charged down into the paddock. 
Biggles waited for no more. Ducking under the outstretched arm of the farmer, who made a half-hearted attempt to stop him, he scrambled over the hedge into the field where he had left the machine. His foot caught in a briar, and he sprawled headlong; but the bird, which he had no intention of relinquishing, broke his fall, and he was up again at once. 
Dishevelled, and panting with excitement, he sped towards the Camel. Fortunately, the impact of Biggles' ten stone weight as he fell seemed to have stunned the bird, or winded it; at any rate, it remained fairly passive during the dash to the machine. 
As he ran, Biggles was wondering what he was going to do with the bird when he got to the machine, and blamed himself for overlooking this very vital question. With time he could have tied it up, but with the Germans howling like a pack of hounds in full cry less than a hundred yards away, there was no time for that. 
He did the only thing possible. He slung the bird into the cockpit, and still holding it with his right hand climbed in after it. It was obvious at once that there was no room for both of them, for the cockpit of a Camel is small, and the turkey is a large bird. 
At least, there was no room on the floor of the cock-pit without jamming the control-stick one way or the other, which certainly would not do. The Camel was not fitted for side-by-side seating, so in sheer desperation he plonked the bird on to the seat and sat on it. 
He felt sorry for the bird, but there was no alternative, and he mentally promised it respite as soon as they got clear of the ground. 
A rifle cracked perilously near, and another, so without waiting to make any fine adjustments, he shoved the throttle open and sped across the snow. It did not take him long to realise that he had bitten off rather more than he could chew, for the turkey was not only a large bird but a very strong one. 
Whether it was simply recovering from the effects of the fall, or whether it was startled by the roar of the three hundred horse-power in the Camel's Bentley rotary engine, is neither here nor there; but the fact remains that no sooner had he started to take off than the bird gave a convulsive jerk that nearly threw him on the centre-section. "Sit still, you fool," he rasped. "Do you want to kill us both?" In sheer desperation he pulled the machine off the ground and steered a crazy course into the sky. 
He breathed a sigh of relief as his wheels lifted, for he had fully expected his undercarriage to buckle at any moment under the unusual strain. The danger of the troops being past, he attempted to adjust himself and his passenger into positions more conducive to safety and comfort. 
He groped for his belt, but quickly discovered that its length, while suitably adapted for a single person, was not long enough to meet round him in his elevated position. So he abandoned it, and keeping under the clouds, made for home, hoping that he would not find it necessary to fly in any position other than on even keel. 
His head was, of course, sticking well up above the windscreen, and the icy slipstream of the propeller smote his face with hurricane force. He tried to crouch forward, but the turkey, relieved of part of his weight, seized the opportunity thus presented to make a commendable effort to return to its paddock. 
It managed to get one wing in between Biggles' legs and, using it as a lever, nearly sent him over the side; he only saved himself by letting go of the control-stick and grabbing at the sides of the cockpit with both hands. The machine responded at once to this unusual freedom by making a sickening, swerving turn earthwards, and he only prevented a spin, which at that altitude would have been fatal, by the skin of his teeth. 
"Phew! " he gasped, thoroughly alarmed. "Another one like that and this bird'll have the cockpit to himself! " He brought the machine to even keel, at the same time taking a swift look around for possible trouble. 
He saw it at once, in the shape of a lone Albatros scout that had evidently just emerged from the clouds, and was now moving towards him. 
He pursed his lips, then automatically bent forward to see if his gun sight was in order. Only then did he realize that he was much too high in his seat to get his eye anywhere near it. In a vain attempt to do this he again crouched forward, and once more the bird displayed its appreciation of the favour by-heaving to such good purpose that Biggles was flung forward so hard that his nose struck the top edge of the windscreen. He blinked under the blow, and retaliated by fetching the cause of it a smart jab with his left elbow. 
Meanwhile, the Hun was obviously regarding the unusual position and antics of the pilot with deep suspicion, for he half turned away before approaching warily from another direction. 
"That fellow must think I've got St. Vitus' Dance," thought Biggles moodily, as the bird started a new movement of short, sharp jerks which had the effect of causing the pilot to bob up and down and the machine to pursue a curious, undulating course. "I don't wonder he's scared!" he concluded. "Oh, help!" 
The turkey had at last succeeded in getting its head free, and it raised it to a point not a foot from Biggles' face. The look of dignity it had once worn was now replaced by one of indignation. 
For a moment or two all went well, for the bird seemed to be satisfied with this modicum of freedom, and began to look from side to side at its unusual surroundings with considerable interest. 
"Yes, my lad, that's a Hun over there!" Biggles told it viciously, as the Albatros swept round behind them. "If you start playing the fool again you're likely to be roasted in your feathers!" 
Taka-taka-taka-taka! 
Biggles saw that the Hun had placed himself in a good position for attack, and knew the matter was getting serious. He had no intention of losing his life for the sake of a meal, so he forthwith prepared to jettison his cargo--an action which had always been in the background of his mind as a last resort. 
But, to his increasing alarm, he found that this was going to be a by-no-means-simple matter, and he was considering the best way of accomplishing it when the staccato chatter of machine-guns, now very close, reached his ears. 
To stunt, or even return the attack, was out of the question, and now, thoroughly alarmed, he moved his body as far forward as possible in order to allow the bird to wriggle up behind him and escape. The turkey appeared to realise his intention, and began worming its way upward between his back and the seat. 
Taka-taka-taka-taka-taka! 
"Get out, you fool! " yelled Biggles, as he heard the bullets boring into the fuselage behind him; but either the bird did not understand or else it refused to accept his invitation, for it remained quite still. There was only one thing to do, and he did it. He pulled the control-stick back and shot upwards into the clouds. 
To climb right through them - a distance of perhaps several thousand feet - was, of course, impossible, for to keep the machine level in such conditions was out of the question. Still, he hung on until, finding himself becoming giddy, he dived earthward again, and looked anxiously for his pursuer as he emerged into clean air. 
To his annoyance, he saw that the Hun was still there, about three hundred yards behind him. 
In turning to look behind he had put his left hand on the bird, and as he turned once more he saw, to his horror, that his glove was covered with blood. 
"I've been hit!" was his first thought. 
Then he grasped the true state of affairs. No wonder the bird was quiet-it was dead. It had stopped a shot which in normal circumstances might have caught him in the small of the back. 
The shock sobered him, but he found that it was a good deal easier to dispose of a dead bird than a living one. Twenty-odd pounds of dead weight was a very different proposition from the same weight of jerking, flapping, muscular life, and he had no difficulty in stowing it in the space between the calves of his legs and the bottom of the seat. 
This done, he quickly buckled his safety-belt, and, turning to his attacker, saw, to his intense relief, that, presumably encouraged by his opponent's disinclination to fight, the Hun was coming in carelessly to deliver the knock-out. 
Biggles spun the Camel round in its own length and shot up in a climbing turn that brought him behind the straight-winged machine. That the pilot had completely lost him he saw at a glance, for he raised his head from his sights, and was looking up and down, as if bewildered by the Camel's miraculous disappearance. 
Confidently Biggles roared down to point-blank range. The German looked round over his shoulder at the same moment, but he was too late, for Biggles' hand had already closed over his gun-lever. 
He fired only a short burst, but it was enough. The Albatros reared up on its tail, fell off on to a wing, and then spun earthwards, its engine roaring in full throttle. 
Biggles did not wait to see it crash. He was more concerned with getting home, for he was both cold and tired. He found a rift in the clouds, climbed up through it, and, without seeing a machine of any description, crossed the Lines into comparative safety. 
Judging the position of the aerodrome as well as he could he crept cautiously back to the ground, and landed on the deserted tarmac. 
With grim satisfaction, he hauled the corpse of his unwitting preserver from the cockpit, and, flinging it over his shoulder, strode towards the mess. 
Dead silence greeted him as he opened the mess door, and, still in his flying-kit, heaved the body of his feathered passenger on to the table. Then a babble of voices broke out. 
Mahoney pushed his way to the front, staring. "Where on earth did you get that?" he cried incredulously. 
"I told you I was going turkey hunting," replied Biggles simply, "and-well, there you are! Look a bit closer, and you'll see the bullet-holes. I don't like reminding you, old lad, but don't forget you're doing my early patrols next week. And don't forget I'm carving the turkey I " 
The End